Last Stand
by Call me Longstride
Summary: The last stand of Prussia in WWII. Excuse my grammar.


"Sir!" The sentry yelled breathlessly, sprinting into the room. "Sir, our defenses have been breached! We were holding our ground but then He appeared and- and- there was nothing we could do- SIR!" The man that the barrage of fast, panicked words were sent at was lounging in his grand leather chair, boots resting on his desk. He exuded an air of 'not-my-problem' that infuriated both his superiors and his subjects.

His head perked up a bit at the mention of this 'He' though, the visor on his hat raising enough so that the red eyes of the albino could lock onto the bringer of this news. "Und who is 'He', little man?" His voice cracked out like the lash of a whip.

The sentry brushed off the insult and replied in a quiet voice, "Ivan."

The hat fell to the ground, he stood up so quickly. In a flash he was on his feet, a smirk stretching across his snowy skin. He brushed off some invisible dust from his sleeves and straightened his jacket, affixing his hat back upon his head and crowing, "Vell finally a little action around here!"

The sentry winced as the commander stalked past him to the opposite wall, taking down from a rack a long double-edged sword. The metal still gleamed after many years of use, mainly because of the meticulous care given by its owner. Guns were standard issue now, and they were expected to use them for fighting instead of blades, but the commander knew that Ivan wasn't going to attack him with a firearm, oh no. He knew how the Russian liked to play.

He weighed the sword in his hand, giving it a few experimental twirls, then sheathed it and left for the front lines.

At a makeshift command tent near the front lines, Ludwig was growing increasingly angry by the second, aided by the fact that his brother had yet to make an appearance on the battle field, no doubt reclining in his study, bossing people around. They were desperately trying to hold their ground, but ever since the white-blond giant, Ivan had been spotted by his troops the Russian offensive had become difficult to withstand. Where the hell was his brother?!

"West!" Speak of the devil, Gilbert ducked through the tent opening and made for his imposing sibling. Ludwig lifted an eyebrow at the sword he recognized hanging from his brothers side like he was back in his knight days with the Teutonic order. He shook his head and growled, "Vhere have you been?" Gilbert opened his mouth to speak when he was cut off, "Nien. I don't vant to know. Just do your part, do not get in ze vay, und find yourself a gun." The Prussian pouted, "Bruder, mien sword-"

"Is old-fashioned. You used it in ze crusades Prussia, this is a _var_!" The German's voice steadily climbed into a shout. Prussia bristled at that, "A var zat ve are fighting vith Russia, bruder! I know how to fight him! Ivan never changes- I beat him in childhood, I can do ze same now!"

A silence fell, as fragile as glass between them. They both glared furiously, blood red to sky blue, an explosion waiting to happen. And then at the same time, they both visibly relaxed, a crisis momentarily avoided as they realized that they had a battle to fight and it wasn't between each other.

"I am going to ze front," Gilbert announced, turning to the tent opening where snow slowly filtered through the crack. "To find Russia, und finish him." He looked over his shoulder to see Germany pouring over a huge map spread across the table in front of him, examining their position. Ignoring him. Pride and heart stinging, Prussia left the tent in search of Ivan.

The towering man stood at the center of the main battlefield. His full-length winter coat was looking far warmer than Prussia felt at the moment, but he refused to let it show. Russia's violet eyes stood out in his pale face, skin adopting the color of the snow and hair the color of the winter sun.

"Gilbert!" The icy sweet voice rang across the field where fire had temporarily ceased for this. The meeting of countries. Of course, if it came to a fight, all bets were off and in short, hell would break loose. "It's been too long da?" Ivan said from where he stood, about ten feet from his rival. Gilbert chuckled, "Vell it's certainly been too long since I got to kick your ass, wuss!"

"Hm." Ivan responded, slowly looking the other up and down, raking him with his eyes. Prussia repressed a sudden flash of fear. This was not the small disturbed child he remembered from the days he was a knight. No, this was an obviously strong, powerful, and above all, confident nation. One who he knew from experience could snap like you flipped a switch and strangle you while laughing. Another flash of fear struck him as he tried to hold the Russian's gaze and realized that maybe the switch had already been flipped.

Gilbert flashed a wide smirk and drew his sword, feeling slightly better with the deadly weapon in his hands, "Let's cut ze crap Russia. I came out here for a fight, und so did you." Ivan smiled darkly and reached into his coat, drawing out a metal pipe with a water faucet still attached to the end. He held it in one hand and spun it like a katana, bracing himself for Prussia's attack.

On either end of the field, Prussians, Germans and Russians all stood by, because once the fight began, so would the battle. Ludwig barely had time to utter a prayer for his brother's safety when the albino raised his sword and swung the first blow of his final fight.

The battle was blinding, like nothing Prussia had ever fought before. Ivan moved fast, parrying and then striking so that he barely had time to block. He wielded his pipe like an extension of his arm, while the sword in Gilbert's hand grew heavy and slow. His mind calmed. It must be his time. _'When a nation grows weak,'_ his father had explained, _'too weak to defend themselves, that nation must except that their time is up. They shall either fade or die in battle, but to hang on is a pointless, painful process.'_

At the time Gilbert had assumed Germania spoke of Rome, who had foolishly clung on to his existence as a country despite the obvious fact that he was slowly dying. Now, he suspected he was also talking about himself and attempting to warn his proud, arrogant son, about the life of a country.

He could no longer defend himself. His time was up. Around them the battle raged but the urge to fight, which had spurred him through centuries of his life, had almost left him. Almost.

Blocking a strike from above he poured all of his remaining power into the battle. He whirled and landed a solid kick to Russia's ribcage, the unexpected move knocking the breath from the man. He brought his sword above his head and slashed it down through the air. It collided at the last second with the metal pipe thrown up to protect Ivan's head, the vibrations from impact so strong it resonated in their bones. Strike, block, duck, slash, deflect, and strike.

One arm that failed to react fast enough and the cold steel pipe cracked sickeningly against Prussia's ribcage. Crack. A rib shattered and he fell to his knees with a yell, instinctively curling into himself, only to have the pipe land across his back, flattening him to the ground. He tried to sit up, but Ivan was already there, straddling his bruised spine and pinning him down, unable to draw a breath.

The world began to grow fuzzy and dark from lack of oxygen. Gilbert's mouth filled with salt and he spat a spray of red onto the snow, staining it the color of his eyes. Above him he heard Russia chuckle and the scrape of a knife being drawn. He barely felt the burn of the incision made beneath his jaw, deep enough that he would most certainly die, and shallow enough that it would be slow.

Gunfire still raged around them as Russia stood and quite simply left, not completely, but stood back at the other end of the field as a temporary cease-fire was instilled once Ludwig noticed his fallen brother.

"Bruder!" He yelled, more unnerved than Prussia had any memory of him being, even as a child. Ha! Germany as a child, those had been the days! He had crusaded, fought, won, brought honor and glory to the Teutons, and he was adored as an older brother. Somewhere along the line, he came to fear that 'older brother' had been replaced in Ludwig's mind with 'annoying brat I have to baby-sit and get out of trouble'. But now, it was clear to him that in at least some part of Ludwig's heart, he was still an older brother.

The German's knees slid through the snow to his brother's side, assessing the situation. "Bruder, vha-vhat happened?" He asked frantically, seeing the alarming amount of blood pumping steadily from various places. Prussia opened his mouth but instead of words, a small stream of red bubbled forth.

He was leaving. He could feel fatigue tugging at him to just relax and close his eyes. No, no, he needed to say goodbye. He couldn't just give up. Ludwig by now, being intelligent as he was, had figured out by now that there would be no saving his brother. Ludwig… His little brother… Needed to say… Goodbye…

Hearing and sight faded. In his last moments, he felt the sting of salt water and drops falling on his face.


End file.
